Page 41 of Marisol Acts the Part
As if she could be any more impressive.
“Oh my God,” a voice says over my shoulder.
I whip around, prepared to apologize even though I’ve got permission to be here. The girl lingering in the doorway is unfamiliar, but not for long. Her dark-brown curls are tied up in a messy bun, held together with a strawberry hair clip that perfectly matches her light pink jumpsuit. Her lips curl into a smile that mirrors the one that makes being on set feel so much less terrifying.
Fatima.
“You’re actually here,” Fatima says before I can introduce myself. She dashes up to me, extending a hand as if for me to shake, only to use it to gesture wildly as she continues. “Avalon Grovewas basically my life for three years, and I was obsessed with you and everything about your character, and—” She cuts off abruptly, her smile deflating. “Sorry. This is probably super creepy.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, resting a hand on her arm when thedeflation seems to spread to the rest of her body. She perks up at the touch, eyeing my hand eagerly. “I’m the one who’s sitting in your bedroom,” I continue, releasing my hold on her arm once she’s steady so I can gesture to the room. “Which is supercute.”
“Why, thank you.” She beams, bashfully tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Don’t listen to whatever my sister tells you—I’m the one with taste in this family.”
I snort, leaning in to whisper, “I believe it.”
No disrespect to Jamila—the minimalist aesthetic is totally valid. I’m just more aligned with Fatima’s vision: Life is always better with a pop of color.
“I’m really sorry, by the way,” Fatima continues, sitting down beside me, her voice low even though there’s no reason for us to be whispering. “About all that stuff with Miles. Those articles were awful. And I’m sorry, but he was a total dick about it.”
At first, I braced myself. For her to take Miles’s side, for her to hint that my reaction was overdramatic. For her to say that Milesol breaking up ruined her idea of love. Not for her to say what I thought had been the truth the entire time—that Miles screwed me over. That his statement made me seem like I was some passing fling instead of a serious four-year relationship. That the media was unnecessarily cruel to me. Mom, Lily and Posie, even Jerome told me Miles was an ass for what he did, but only out of obligation. This is the first time someone who read the story told by the media has been on my side. In person, at least. My followers have, for the most part, been loyal following the breakup, but it’s harder to feel the sentiment behind a comment than it is to hear it in real life.
“Oh…thanks. It’s, uh…we’re fine now,” I say quickly. Even after everything that’s happened between me and Miles, I feel the need to defend him. Our breakup felt shitty, but he’s not a bad person. At the end of the day, we’re two teenagers who outgrew one another.
“If you ever want to talk about it, I’ve been interning atHollywood Today,” Fatima says eagerly, her hands moving a mile a minute as she talks. “Mainly writing fluff pieces on who got divorced this week and what diet supplement influencers are shilling, but I’m allowed to pitch my own pieces, too. I’m even doing a profile on Jamila about being cast onThe Limit.You could—”
“Fatima!” Jamila’s voice cuts the conversation short as she comes barreling into the room, wielding a rolled-upNew Yorkeras a weapon. “I told you to leave her alone!”
“We were just talking!” Fatima shouts back when Jamila attempts to whack her with the magazine.
Jamila relents once Fatima stands up and retreats to her own side of the room. She crosses her arms, keeping the magazine tucked beneath one arm in case she needs to use it again. “So you didn’t ask to interview her for work?”
Fatima shrugs. “I was giving her an opportunity to tell her side of the story.”
“Get. Out.” Jamila points the magazine at Fatima, pushing it harder into her chest with each word.
“Ah, what’re you two fighting about now?” a new voice calls out.
A woman appears in the hall, bracing herself on the doorway with one hand and gripping a cane with the other. Flecks of gray are streaked through the dark brown curls held togetherin a loose braid down the length of her back. Her face has a map of laugh lines and the first signs of emerging wrinkles, but there’s an incandescent glow beneath her brownskin.
Like her daughter, she lights up the room.
“Fatima is bothering Marisol,” Jamila immediately tattles, pointing at her sister like they’re toddlers bickering over a broken toy.
“Fatima,” their mother warns, her voice even and measured but stern. The exact type of tone that can strike fear into any child—including me. Frightening enough to make Fatima stomp out of the room with a huff. Fatima’s mom pats her on the head as she leaves, biting back a laugh when Fatima grumbles something back in reply.
Their mom steps carefully into the room, leaning heavily on her cane for balance. Jamila quickly rushes to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. “My apologies, Marisol. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Jammy has told us so much about you.” She pinches Jamila’s cheek, much to her daughter’s annoyance. Jamila scowls, muttering “Mom!” through gritted teeth while trying to both wriggle away from her mom and maintain her grip on her.
“Thank you, Mrs.El Amrani,” I say once I’ve suppressed my giggle, taking the attention off Jamila. “You have a beautiful home.”
Mrs.El Amrani grins proudly. “I’m so glad you were able to visit. You’ll have to come back again when my husband is home to make you dinner. His chebakia is award-winning.”
“It was a local dessert competition thing,” Jamila amends sheepishly.
“That’s still award-winning!” her mom snaps back, playfullywhacking Jamila on the arm. “Don’t diminish your papa’s accomplishments!”
“I’m not, I’m not!” she says with a laugh when her mom plays dirty and nudges her in the ribs, a spot that must be ticklish based on the way she squirms. Good to know. “Dad’s an amazing cook. Andyes,his chebakia is…” She pauses to fold her fingers together and give a chef’s kiss. “Usually we only make it for special occasions or around Ramadan. It’s basically fried dough coated in this syrupy honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds.”
Fried dough covered in anything sounds delicious to me, but the way Jamila and her mom close their eyes and lean in to each other at the thought of this dish makes my mouth water so intensely I’m worried I’ll drool on my dress.
